Game Set Matchsticks Setting on the World on Fire
by SchadeObscura
Summary: Everybody seems to find love except Kyoya Ohtori. But what if...


Game Set Matchsticks Setting on the World on Fire

Click clickety clickety click click... clickety clickety "KYOYA!" A sudden stop, fingers raised over home row. His glasses reflected the chandelier's crystal beams and champagne glow and none of the irritation in his dark eyes. "Milord called?"

Tamaki whirled over to the Chippendale writing desk his trusty Vice President secured for his own notebooks, laptop, and other sundry. Hitching one hip on the corner, Tamaki thought Kyoya's stern visage struck a particularly scary and suave profile, especially with the sunshine pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Music Room 3. And what use would his role as President of the Host Club be worth if he couldn't cajole his major domo away from the keyboard and into a bevy of princesses now and then? "It's a beautiful spring day, Sakura-senpai, come regale the newest and fairest flowers with some tea." Without letting Kyoya reply, Tamaki hooked his elbow and led his hapless friend to the newly acquired red velvet Victorian era Borne Settee (only **¥6** 9,800, what a steal!), where three 2nd-year ladies waited for their King, and apparently Kyoya as well. He supposed he could take a break, though entertaining the princesses directly meant extra time later on Club management. He knew Tamaki meant well; his best friend – and that was still a surprise! – seemed to know when it was time to surface, though he never insisted or pushed very hard, not even now. Kyoya was circumspect enough that his initial annoyance didn't show on his face. He was gracious, answered each flighty question with a touch of flirtation, and fled to the solace of his files as soon as the doves turned their heads back to Tamaki. Kyoya didn't mind them, though he saw them as means to an end rather than an endless source of adoration. Renge was certainly a cat in the henhouse, but she wasn't looking to catch the eye of a Host Club prince, well, not anymore. He could always count on the Twins to deflect; as irritating as they could be, they were far more perceptive than anybody gave them credit for, especially Kaoru. Today... well, he would rather swim through rivers of numbers and information streams than stick his conversational toes into the shallow pools of Ouran High School teenage girls. Suddenly, a knock at the Music Room door, and it opens to another Ouran attendee... with her brother?

Kyoya surreptitiously moved back to his desk, reaching for his iPad, and immediately began indexing for information. His fingers flew over the virtual keypad, and within seconds he pegged his targets. Aine and Tynan O'Malley from America, heirs to O'Malley International Freight and Shipping, based out of Chicago. They both attend Ouran, though Aine is the older sibling. Interesting... she takes all the math, business, and science courses, while he sticks to culture, arts, and literature classes. Looking over the top of his iPad, Kyoya took in the brother and sister. Aine was taller than most of the ladies here, though by no means an Amazon (and wouldn't Hunny love that!). Her long, curly hair was fiery red, and her eyes blazed green like shamrocks (let's go with the Irish theme, it works). She wore a claddagh ring on her right hand, and a sterling silver hair comb, engraved with Celtic knots, that swept her hair back over her left ear. Her eyes opened wide at the opulence of the Host Club, and she looked back at her brother, who seemed happy for her, but not really in the room with her. Now Kyoya's interest was piqued; most young men who entered weren't uncomfortable or unwelcome, but they suffered for their younger sisters or cousins and pretended to find something to do or left. (And sometimes, these princesses were the fiancées of arranged marriages between powerful families so the betrothed was a chaperone.) But Tynan seemed out of time or place completely. As his sister danced through the decor and sampled the finger foods with her friends, he walked slowly to a window, sat down, leaned against the panes, and closed his eyes. Kyoya noticed flashes of red from the sun filtering through his thick auburn hair, and was he mistaken that this boy had grey eyes? Yes, he was right – the photo provided with his school picture proved it. Kyoya took a deeper look into Tynan O'Malley's records, and discovered a multi-millionaire in his own right at the age of 16. Tynan was the owner and curator of Ealaine, a Chicago art gallery with worldwide sales; Kyoya remembered his father had a few pieces from Ealaine in the mansion. That would explain the air of mystery and the quiet nature. He lived in the world of art, and don't they all seem a little fey and otherworldly, like banished gods? "Are you okay, senpai?" Haruhi's question snapped Kyoya out of his reverie, though his face and his eyes were as impassive as ever. "I'd ask if you knew who they are, but I know you do. Are they Americans?" Kyoya turned to face Haruhi, nodding to her in reply, and searching for a sign that she might have seen more than he wanted anybody to. With a smile, Haruhi wandered over to the settee with Tamaki, leaving Kyoya with his iPad and his closed thoughts, which decided to stray toward a young Prometheus basking in the sun on a windowsill.

"Who is that handsome dark-haired Host Club prince?" Aine asked her brother, as they made their way into Music Room 3. Tynan looked down at her, but she was looking across the room where the "princes" were gathered around their King, Tamaki Suoh. Following her gaze, he saw the three likely candidates of Aine's regard – a tall one about his height, a short androgynous one (probably a girl, though), and the one with glasses. And wasn't he giving off interesting vibes? Tynan studied the most Japanese of all the Hosts, noticing how he stood a little taller than the rest, and seemed... more still, like a deep lake amidst the raging river of his friends. Tynan wondered if even breezes would stand aside and leave his black hair to fall. Or how it would feel running through his fingers... His right hand closed into a fist and he turned away facing the window, hoping the sunlight would cover the light blush rising to his face. As Aine went looking for the friends she was going to meet, Tynan gravitated to the deep windows, and sat down on a cushioned sill. He turned to face the sky, closing his eyes into slits, and letting his mind wander. Leaving Chicago to live his with sister overseas was the best decision he made. To this today, even in this moment, he smiled in absolute wonder at how easily his father accepted that his son would not be the heir, nor provide the spare. His mother... Tynan still felt the lashes of her tongue and her disgust in her gay son, and he shuddered at the memories. Padraig O'Malley lovingly accepted the different music and roaring color in his son, and gave him a refuge by gifting him space for Tynan's own art. Ealaine Gallery was born from his need to pour his heart out to the world, even if his choices wouldn't always be welcome. Drawing rooms, executive offices, embassies, and black-tie restaurants paid handsomely for a Saothor painting or a Tynan sculpture. His charcoal sketches were presented as gifts to visiting heads of state, and Padraig himself commissioned a portrait from his son, now proudly on display in the elegant foyer of O'Malley International. Tynan laughed sadly and shook his head; he could sell out gallery shows in London and Paris but he walked alone in this world. His friends at their old school in Chicago knew his preferences and accepted him without any reservations, but "friend" did not mean "beloved." He smirked, as he supposed all Irish did at love and the hand of fate; and did Aine suspect he already knew who she wanted? Padraig disclosed that this trip to Japan was a trial separation with Tynan as a willing chaperone, and luckily Ouran had an outstanding STEM curriculum that didn't segregate boys and girls. Aine thrived in the competitive atmosphere of a Japanese high school, though the thoroughly parochial (her word) school uniform left her baffled; it WAS the 21st century, after all. Dad's lucky his daughter is a science and business genius, Tynan mused, but he knew without a doubt that his father loved him equally, which made the derision and hatred from his mother so much harder to bear. He knew who he was early in his life. When he made the decision to open up and tell his parents, he never dreamed how much his mother would come to despise his very existence. They lived in the same home, and lived a universe apart. She threw barbs of disdain at family dinners, and didn't speak of his artwork or accomplishments – not even his existence – to friends and acquaintances, even those who displayed his works in their homes. This trip to Japan with Aine was an Eden of solace; though he knew it wasn't "polite to discuss such things" here, nobody was outright hostile and he could pursue new artistic methods to incorporate into his own styles. The kimono – no, wait, the _uchikake_ robes – were simply amazing, and he knew he would commission a black silk-and-embroidered one before he went home, to wear and hang in his own bedroom for inspiration. Or maybe that earthy cornflower blue... and wouldn't that blue make those black eyes lustrous behind those glasses... Ah, enough, Tynan. No Japanese prince for the likes of a poor Chicago Irish artist. Checking his watch, he noted the hour and looked around for Aine. It was time to go back to their rented _minka;_ rather, Tynan would go back to his minka and Aine would go to the main house – the minka sat on its property. She didn't like roughing it, and she loved teasing him about maintaining the 'starving artist' persona. He stood up, scanned the room, and found the Host Club King – Tamaki, right? – holding her hand and wishing her a good day, drawing a becoming blush to Aine's cheeks. Tynan walked up and put his arm around his sister's shoulders, nodding thank you to the Hosts, and looking a little longer than he should have at the silent Kyoya Ohtori before they left.

That night, sitting on the floor of his room, Kyoya went surfing the Internet instead of finishing his calculus homework. He had the specifics on O'Malley and its considerable fortune and international prestige, now he needed to understand Tynan. The name was interesting by itself; Tynan was a small town in Northern Ireland, famous for its first-millennium High Cross, depicting Adam and Eve under an apple tree. And of course, as a town in Northern Ireland, Tynan saw its own dead during the Time of Troubles. It seemed these two paradoxes found a home within the body of a young man from America. He was mildly surprised that Tynan's art crossed genres; he was a master with paint and marble, and occasionally his exhibits would feature the same study, rendered in both mediums (art critics noted he never sold them individually; they always sold as a set, usually for millions). Kyoya understood the value in collecting art and which artists and styles garnered attention from the right circles, but he never felt inspired or drawn to any anything or anyone in particular. Quality craftsmanship was a staple of Japanese life, and he respected Tynan's philosophy that true artistry must exist in its cultural setting. But the images of oil paintings and sculpted black marble didn't appeal to him nearly as much as the pictures of Tynan he found, taken for an article in an international art magazine. The photographer snapped playful, man-about-town portraits, and Kyoya felt the infamous wind blowing the tails of Tynan's long wool coat behind him. The next was an intimate shot of Tynan in his studio, naked to the waist, covered in plaster dust during his work on the prototype of a sculpture for the Renwick Gallery of the Smithsonian. The intense concentration drew Kyoya; his sister often chided him for his singular, undivided attention to his studies or his management of the Host Club, with no room for distraction. He supposed that an artist required the same concentration, especially to be as successful as Tynan was. (Talent only takes one so far.) The final picture of the series drew an involuntary breath from Kyoya; a close-up of Tynan, looking straight into the camera with absolutely no poise or studied expression, his fawn-and-fire hair strewn across deep grey eyes with thick lashes, and the straight nose set above a mouth soft in repose and slightly open. The eyes saw straight through the lens, through the photographer, and directly to another world completely out of the shot; his whole face telegraphed a strong desperation to be "there" instead of "here." Kyoya couldn't look away. Without even knowing what he did, he saved the image to his personal cloud drive then stared at the picture again until a beeping sound shook him from his reverie. It was time to sleep, and he hadn't finished his homework. Turning off his laptop, he closed its lid and turned to his papers, feeling cheated out of... something he wouldn't define. And for the first time, likely ever, he didn't want to do what was necessary. He wanted to sit with a fallen god instead.

Tynan wished he had classes with Kyoya Ohtori, but after a few modest, innocent inquiries, he realized their interests and their scholarly pursuits were polar opposites. To be sure, Dad wouldn't let him off the hook for shirking his studies, and he secretly adored the Cubist beauty of geometric proofs and the Pollock-esque unpredictability of human genetics. But Kyoya was already taking higher-level courses; no matter, his sister was mad for the Host Club, and he dutifully escorted her through its doors every day. Now he brought a sketchpad or wads of putty to keep his hands – and eyes – busy, and away from trouble in the form of a modern Japanese _daimyo_ , dressed in his perfectly pressed uniform. Some of the princesses looked his way now and then, probably wondering if he was a Host in disguise, and he was grateful that Tamaki and the others left him to his corner. Now, that girl his sister's age, Haruhi Fujioka, surreptitiously brought him tea and snacks with a smile, bless her, and he could only shake his inner head at the effortless ruse she played. Someday he wanted to hear, and paint, that story. Who was he to judge what passed for normal and everyday? He could tell that all the Princes knew her secret, and it was heartwarming that they teased her and protected her at the same time. His Irish matchmaker genes saw the longing looks from Tamaki in her direction, and didn't those bright eyes carry his heart? When he looked down at his sketchpad again, he realized his hand, his head, and his heart already sketched the pair together. Tynan blessed the Irish blood in his veins for perceiving the world around him and rising to the light through his art; it softened the blows of his own world, and he reveled in these budding love affairs leaping to paper. Flipping to the page before, he let his own guard down a little to gaze at the colored sketch he hadn't shared with Aine, bless her mouth. His instinct was right; the cornflower blue did bring out Kyoya's features. Tynan left the steely gaze and the perfect posture intact; he consciously avoided imposing his vision onto any portraits of real people, though he would talk to them extensively to inject their life into the pictures. He knew the sketch of this third son of the Ohtori family would be his next painting, a private one only for himself without the prying eyes of anybody else, not even his sister. For a brief moment, he felt the mist of tears rise up in his eyes, and with a long sigh of practice he firmly shut that door. Nobody likes a sad drunk, his adored grandda would tell him, which always confused Tynan until he was old enough to understand that some drank to forget their troubles. He wasn't old enough, and some days he wasn't sure there was enough whisky in all of Ireland to drown his sorrows. _Aaaaand there's that sad drunk, you foolish boy,_ he chided himself.This time, Aine came to get him for their trip home. Luckily, his megrims were gone and his sketchpad was closed before she reached his perch. Unfolding himself, they made their proper farewells and left.

Kyoya watched them leave Music Room 3, his unwavering gaze following the back of Tynan O'Malley. Each day, he observed the routine: bring his sister, move to the windows or a settee in the best light, open the sketchpad, and draw (pencil or charcoal) while waiting for his sister to finish. No doubt, he drew the members of the Host Club, but Kyoya had no fear of their reveal to the general public. It was far more probable that he would gift them to the respective princesses as thanks for their unwitting poses, a very grand and honorable gesture. Perhaps he should approach Tynan for official sketches of the Hosts; money wasn't an object and licensed reproductions (signed, of course) would net a fortune. In fact, he set up an appointment in Google Calendar to remind him tomorrow when the O'Malleys arrived. Now to tell the others...

"He's an internationally acclaimed artist. Your father has one of his sculptures in the great room at Mansion #3, Tamaki," Kyoya pointed out. "Some of his work has been studied in contemporary art classes here at Ouran High School. The fact he comes here daily with his sister places him in the perfect position to make preliminary sketches of us, and the finished products will likely be one of our most profitable image builders ever. Signed reproductions would go for record sums."

"I dunno, how would he ever get Mori-san's good side? He doesn't really have one," quipped Hikaru.

"And why would anybody buy a picture of Hunny eating cake?" retorted Kaoru.

Haruhi shushed the twins with a look of annoyance. "I got to take a peek at some of his quick sketches when I bring him something to eat and drink. He showed me old drawings he did of his sister. They aren't fake... I mean, you can tell he really understands the person he's looking at. He's not drawing what he thinks they should look like. I don't think he would agree to do it at all if anybody tried to make him draw a certain way," she said, eyeballing Tamaki.

Kyoya nodded. "Then it's decided. All Hosts will wear their best uniforms every day starting tomorrow, until all the sketches are complete." That could be a problem, he thought, making a mental note to order more uniforms for Haruhi. She didn't have the money to buy spares. After inputting the record into his tablet, Kyoya looked up to see where the Hosts were. Finding himself alone, he swiped to the app for his cloud drive, and with a few taps opened up Tynan's picture again. What would he make of me, he thought. His brothers were more handsome; his oldest brother was very photogenic. His father frowned at non-traditional portraits for his family, and ruthlessly interviewed an artist to detect and remove any signs of "personal vision." However, these were different and if needed, he would politely decline his own portraiture in favor of time spent highlighting the more popular Hosts. Plans made, he let his eyes wander back to his tablet, and with an inner sigh of regret, closed the image and went back to Hosting.

Tynan couldn't believe his eyes. Kyoya was coming his way? He barely had time to snap his sketchpad shut and rise from his seat. "Kyoya-san, how are you? I hope I'm not disturbing the Hosts?" Kyoya bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement, quickly taking in the charcoal stains on the tips of Tynan's fingers, and the fact they stood eye to eye at the same height. A frisson of energy ran up Kyoya's spine, but nothing showed on his face or in his demeanor, though he did push his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and started his speech. "The Ouran High School Host Club wishes to commission portraits of each of us from you – color sketches, actually. As the artist and as an experienced gallery owner, we would accept your pricing for your services. Would you be interested?" Tynan couldn't believe his ears. The chance to sketch Kyoya at his leisure? To talk one-on-one, to be completely in the moment with him? Tynan knew it would be a one-sided affair, and in the end Kyoya would still be a memory in oils on the wall of his private studio, but he knew he would gladly walk into damnation, laughing at the devil, for this chance of a lifetime. "It would be an honor, Kyoya-san, though we would need to meet and lay out contractual obligations and an agreement for payment. Each Host must understand they must give me the time and information I need, and this is non-negotiable. In return, I promise a true and faithful representation of every Host." Kyoya was impressed; he didn't expect the gallery owner to appear before the artist. "Very well. At this moment, I have no pressing Host Club matters, would you like to discuss the terms?" Tynan started a little – so soon? Kyoya motioned to his Chippendale desk across the suite, "After you," and walked side-by-side to their destination. Kyoya motioned to the plush chaise lounge beside his work area, muttering "Tamaki's idea" under his breath, and noted again with satisfaction that Tynan chose to sit, rather than repose. He noticed how fascinated Tynan was with his expert use of technology. When he stole a quick glance, he was intrigued that Tynan watched his hands on the keyboard and how he sat in his chair rather than gazing at his face as he expected. "I'm always amazed by technology," Tynan said, "and so many incredible graphic designers! Lifelike gaming avatars, 3D printing human organs, and all in the barest blink of the universe. You remind me of Zero Cool, you know." At this, Kyoya looked up from his work, interested in this revelation. Tynan blushed a little, thinking he might have interrupted something serious. "I didn't mean to offend you. He's the main protagonist in the movie "Hackers" from the 1990s. He sees the world inside of this new Internet like a huge never-ending universe to explore. The ones and zeros become his canvas. That's all I meant." He looked away, feeling small for his comment, and resolved to shut his mouth until Kyoya was done. "If I remember, that's one of Mori-san's favorite movies," he replied, looking at his laptop and continuing his work. "There was a heated conversation between the Twins, Kaoru and Hikaru, over whether Zero Cool really won the battle with Acid Burn. I prefer "Tron," though. And here's a copy of the preliminary contract. If you make any changes, they will be incorporated into the final document. Hopefully, I anticipated your needs, and we can sign the agreement before you and your sister return home today." Kyoya turned to the printer, gathered the fresh printout, and handed it to Tynan. Yet another surprise awaited; Tynan stood, politely borrowed a red pen, walked to an empty table away from Kyoya's desk, sat down, and began reading page by page. Putting his chin on his hand, he watched as Tynan slowly flipped through the papers, making occasional marks and written notes. His hair hung into his eyes, and Kyoya's heart beat slightly faster when Tynan ran his long fingers through to push the hair back and out of his line of vision. He stared when Tynan ran his thumb back and forth across his bottom lip as he read, likely an unconscious nervous gesture. Finally, he rose from the table and returned to Kyoya's desk, placing the edited contract on the desk top next to Kyoya's laptop. "Not much needed to change, though you'll see I added a proviso about accepting the burden of additional costs during the projects as needed, rather than establishing a flat rate. I don't always know if I will have enough of what I need, and I always provide a receipt when I buy more supplies. Otherwise, you covered everything. Shall I wait for the final copy, then?" Still affected by those unguarded moments, Kyoya nodded, turning back to the document and rewriting where Tynan annotated his changes. Another printout, and a quick scan (to Kyoya's disappointment?!) over the new contract, then Tynan signed his name on the line. He watched as Kyoya chose to use his "romaji" signature rather than kanji or kana, and he appreciated the gesture though he was curious to see the symbols. "You may keep this contract for your own purposes. Frankly, you may have to hit Tamaki on the nose with it to keep him from driving you mad. He can be an idiot sometimes." Tynan chuckled, saying "I can already tell. Thank you for this opportunity, Kyoya-san." He put out his hand, an invitation for the American handshake to close the deal, and Kyoya reciprocated. He expected to feel callouses and perhaps a long-healed scar, but the grip was firm and warm, and the skin was not so much "soft" but unblemished. He looked into Tynan's eyes as he shook hands, and saw an intense regard, partnered by a small smile. "Until then, Kyoya-san. It's time for us to go home."

Aine squealed with joy when he told her about his new project. "I don't care what anybody else wants, I want the first copy you make of the Twins!" Tynan had to shrug; she was utterly fascinated by the two incorrigible flirts. He didn't think for a second that her affection was genuine love, but he didn't understand her infatuation with identical twins who were far more interested in each other than anyone else. Kyoya Ohtori and his quiet demeanor, razor wit, and economy of motion coupled with short straight hair and piercing brown eyes suited him far more. Ah well, taking a fancy cost nothing, he supposed. He would soak up memories in the time spent with Kyoya for the day he returned home to Chicago. For now, he walked around the grounds near his minka, finding angles of light and foliage suitable for different backgrounds. He already knew he wanted to sketch these Hosts as feudal Lords. In a way they already were, the sons and scions of the powerful in Modern Japan. He would have to be discreet with Haruhi, however. He didn't know her story, and he knew her true gender was a tightly guarded secret; not even Aine figured it out! He liked her, though. Her wore her kindness for others on her sleeve. Perhaps he could convince her to wear the "12 robes" _junihitoe_ court dress for an individual portrait, free of charge. In the meantime, he had work to do.

The next day, he asked to present his ideas to the Hosts before their guests arrived. Since Aine already knew, he didn't mind if she listened in. After all, she would be making her own proposals as COO soon enough. Before they left for Japan, their father told him she would begin internships at the company, not to interfere with school, to prepare her for taking the reins. So, with that in mind, Tynan began by outlining specific points of order in the contract. "Namely," he ticked off, "that all aspects of artistic control will be mine, and no other. To accomplish this, you will be required to spend time with me before the sketching begins, so that I can know who you are and we can build the vision together. All of the interviews, and the sketches, will be done at the house I'm renting. I can make allowances, but I won't tolerate wasting my time." Before Tamaki could speak up, Tynan noted Mori-san placing a tight grip on his shoulder, effectively stopping whatever he was going to say. Haruhi seemed a little unsure; he'd speak to her on an aside. Kyoya's contract stipulated special dispensations for her anyway. Outside, the clock struck the hour, and the Host Club needed to prepare for the day. For the next week, each of the Hosts came to the minka, talking about their lives and watching Tynan describe his idea for their pictures. Despite Hunny's insistence on cake, Tynan chose to express his clan's history of martial artistry; Hunny readily agreed when Tynan sketched a quick picture of him as a Shinto priest with a traditional Japanese longbow. Mori-san reminded him of the "Lone Wolf and Cub" series; Mori-san agreed eagerly, the interview taking a sidetrack as they discussed the manga series, and the superiority of Goseki Kojima's artwork over Paul Smith's treatment. Haruhi was shocked when he admitted he knew she was faking, but he left it up to her how she wanted to dress. He wasn't surprised to hear her select the every day dress of a villager, which suited her down to earth personality and her own sense of style. Before she left, he approached her about the side project, adding it was his own idea and nobody else would see the results unless she wanted it. He could tell she was intrigued, so he encouraged her to think it over. When the Twins demanded to be samurai, he steered them toward an Ainu folktale of twins born from an egg, descended from a deity. To mollify them, he intended to use a blend of Ainu and Japanese textile designs to form their samurai garments. He appealed to their sense of fashion; his sister owned several bespoke Hitachiin label outfits, so he knew they understood color, cut, and presentation. Tynan was astonished by how easily Tamaki accepted the vision of royalty without any unnecessarily trappings or props. But as they worked together, he realized the frenetic energy Tamaki exuded was just the other side of a very empathetic and giving nature toward his friends. On the final day before he was due to begin the first of the portraits, he sat outside, reading about the climbing kilns of Yomitan, waiting for his final interview to show. But soon it was too dark outside, and Tynan knew Kyoya wasn't going to show up.

Only the artificial sun coming from his iPad screen broke the pitch-black darkness of his bedroom. Kyoya's glasses reflected Tynan's picture, and his mind reflected the turmoil in his heart. He never felt or noticed any specific preference for a boy or a girl, he was busy living up to the expectations of his family and enjoying his friends. He always presumed he would marry after university, likely through an arranged match by the families. Haruhi was the first girl that merited his direct regard, and he treasured her friendship as much as he valued his close relationship with Tamaki. But this was different. Here, in the black solitude of his own room, his heart raced every time he looked into Tynan's eyes. He replayed the handshake over and over in his head. He could still smell the hint of the Penhaligon cologne he wore, and gripped his sheet with a fist remembering Tynan's nervous habit with his thumb at the table... NO. It's not going to happen. _Neither my father nor I will permit it._ But laying on his bed, his arm thrown over his eyes, those words rang false. He knew he intentionally "forgot" his interview with Tynan today. To be alone with someone who drew him so powerfully was a detriment to everything he worked toward. How would he escape that damned portrait now? He started as his smartphone pinged at the incoming text message. He wasn't in the mood for anybody's idle chatter, but it came from Tamaki. So, Tynan told Tamaki that he didn't show up. And now Tamaki will make his life hell until he does. As much as he loved Tamaki like his own brother, there were times he wished they'd never met. Looking at his watch, he realized it was dark way too early; his weather app predicted a huge thunderstorm coming, and the darkness presaged the front moving in. Knowing Tamaki would absolutely NOT stop texting until he got this over with, Kyoya called down for the driver, and gave him the address.

Lightning flashed across the sky, followed by an immense BOOM in the distance. Though the minka was sturdy and designed with modern electricity, Tynan preferred using candlelight, bringing out the mellow tones of the tatami floors and lengthening the shadows on the sliding doors separating the rooms. He sat on his futon, pretending to be engrossed by the climbing kilns of Okinawa, but the diversion wasn't working. He didn't know whether or not he did something to offend Kyoya, or if his own longing leaked somehow. In their time together, Tamaki divulged the importance of tradition and family honor to the Ohtori family, and how being the third son isolated Kyoya. He probably meant for Tynan to understand, as background information to how Kyoya would need to be presented in his portrait. As he listened to Tamaki, he wore a secret smile on his lips. In his sketchpad, Kyoya already wore an uchikake robe of cornflower blue embroidered with Kanagawa waves, and carried a laptop – the secret weapon of the neo-daimyo – in his hand. After the interview was over, Tamaki gave Tynan his personal phone number. "If Kyoya doesn't show up, call me." And so he did, and now he roamed the minka, double-checking to make sure the house was secure against the storm, and his mind racing with his own doubts. Outside, he heard a car door shut, and the sound of steps coming up the path. Surely not with this storm, Tamaki wouldn't... Tynan slid back the door leading outside, and came face to face with Kyoya Ohtori. Who didn't seem very thrilled to be there. Tynan put two and two together – the constant buzzing of "incoming message" from Kyoya's phone and the direction by Tamaki to let him know if Kyoya didn't show up... UGH. Saints and agents of grace defend this poor guy from the good intentions of best friends. "Please, come in before the rain starts," he motioned. Kyoya nodded graciously, taking his shoes off and walking past. "I didn't expect you so late today. I figured you had obligations, and needed to reschedule our interview." There, that gave Kyoya an out, even though Tynan was very aware that Kyoya Ohtori didn't miss appointments unless he was dead. "Are you hungry? Would you like some tea?" Kyoya nodded, walking around the minka, taking stock of the unfurnished rooms. There were the requisite tables and chairs, the bathing room, and he saw the futon on the floor. Only one _fusada_ remained closed to the ;public area; Tynan saw the question in Kyoya's eyes, and waved a hand. "Of course, please go in, I keep my art and my supplies in there. Just don't touch anything. Some of the work is still fresh and hasn't finished drying." Opening the door, he was hit with the smell of expensive paint. A few easels stood near the farthest wall, and he appraised the oil of a child eating yakitori on a bench, the beginnings of a formal nude study in color charcoal, and an empty poster-size sketchpad. At the sound of Tynan approaching, Kyoya turned and accepted the cup of tea on a bone china saucer. "Sorry, European habits. But the tea is amazing. You've had Sencha before, right? I'm buying up a ton to take home with me; Aine calls me a hippie, she refuses anything but coffee in the morning. I'm sorry I don't have much in the way of furniture. I sat outside with the others. We can still do your interview, but you won't get to see the grounds. Do you mind?" Kyoya sipped his tea, which indeed was an everyday staple in his family. He noted that Tynan took care to brew it correctly, a courtesy to be expected of someone who seems so careful of culture. They went back to the main room, and with an embarrassed shrug, gestured for Kyoya to sit down. Instead, he folded gracefully onto the tatami just beside, and took another sip of the tea. _Well aren't we a fine pair_ , Tynan mused, and decided to drop the formality. With an air of boneless nonchalance, he sank to his futon, and waited for Kyoya.

Despite the total calm of his face and body, Kyoya's heart was racing. He managed to text Tamaki back I'M HERE YOU CAN STOP NOW while he walked around the traditional Japanese home, settling his nerves. In truth, he couldn't understand why anybody would choose to live this way, even as affectation. Why sleep on the floor when you can afford a bed? But it wasn't the interview that made his mouth dry. He had to look at Tynan, talk with Tynan, and be with Tynan. The expectations in his life battered against the sudden wants facing him across the floor. His well-honed skill of resisting his father's thinly veiled insults by refusing to show any emotion kept him from reaching out to touch the living, breathing picture. "I don't mind," Kyoya replied, finally calm enough to speak. "And thank you, this tea is a great favorite of my family. I apologize for my tardiness, I was caught in an unavoidable family situation. I should have called, but I see that Tamaki took it upon himself to keep us in touch." The lie rolled so easily off his tongue, but was it really a lie? What would his family think if they knew what he was doing? What he was feeling? Tynan nodded, "It's the same in all families, I think. Before we get started, it's only fair that I tell you that Tamaki told me a little about your family. Trust me, I know how family can be with appearances." Kyoya heard the undertone of resentment. "The theme is feudal Japan. Yes, I know, how cliché. But the Ouran Host Club is personification of the character of Japanese culture. I use the individual personalities of the Hosts to put twists into that fabric. But how I portray you as an individual depends in large measure on how you see yourself. For example, Haruhi preferred the simple dress of a villager. Nothing showy or ornate, which is exactly how she presents herself as a Host." Kyoya startled in surprise, a look of suspicion and distrust shooting from his eyes. Tynan quickly held his hands up in surrender, "I told her I knew," he explained hastily, "and I know how to keep secrets better than a lot of people. It's safe with me. I promise. This isn't about outing anybody. I gave her the choice." Kyoya continued glaring, and Tynan sighed. "Look, I see how protective you all are of her. The only way you'll come to trust that I'm just as protective is looking at her portrait when I'm done." The anger and frustration built, borne from years of bearing his mother's very overt disdain. "I haven't done a single thing to earn that look, Ohtori-senpai, so you can drop the attitude and stop throwing it at me." On those words, Tynan stood up and walked away. Kyoya heard a fusada swish open, then footsteps approaching him again. A sketchpad dropped onto the floor in front of him, open to sketch of Haruhi... as a young man, as a Host, talking with his sister Aine. Kyoya had to agree, nobody would ever suspect that Haruhi was a young woman from this sketch, and as a black and white study, you could tell his sister's hair was red – you just knew it was. Ashamed, Kyoya stood up with the sketchpad, composing an apology in his head. But Tynan was nowhere in the little house; Kyoya found him outside in the rain, sitting on a stone bench by a Zen garden just inside the property's gate. It wasn't pouring yet, but it didn't look like he had any intention of coming inside whether it did or not. Kyoya walked over and offered a hand up, only to have it lightly slapped away. "Go home. Go back to your Host Club. I'll release you from the contract, but I'll finish the others. I'll make something up so Tamaki won't annoy you about it. And you and your better-than-everybody arrogance can go f*** yourselves." Tynan stood up, looked Kyoya dead in the eye, walked away from him back into the house, and slid the door shut.

Ten-fingered gobshite, he muttered. His grandda's favorite, though he had no clue what a gobshite was. But Irish curses always sounded better. And if he didn't know what it meant, Kyoya wouldn't either. Now those damn tears fell over that fool, from a damn Irish fool who made the mistake of letting his guard down. He picked up the sketchpad from the floor, shutting it softly. He wouldn't be ashamed of his feelings in front of that bastard. In his heart of hearts, he knew he would never paint the blue daimyo. It would never come to life on a canvas. He wasn't strong enough. As a tear threatened to slide down his cheek, he heard the door slide open behind him. "Come to sue me for breach of contract?" he sneered. "No," came the soft reply. "I came because... because I owe you an apology." Tynan took a deep breath. "No, you don't. I shouldn't have said what I did. The ugly past has a way of coming up and choking you when you least expect it. Call it Irish sentimentality. In my case, call it family. You'd understand that, wouldn't you?" Kyoya understood, all too well. Taking a few more steps, Kyoya put his hand on Tynan's shoulder. "Yes, I do. And I definitely owe you that apology. And much more, if my portrait is going to put Tamaki in the shade."

Tynan offered up a fresh, dry shirt to wear, as they were both fairly soaking wet. Kyoya gratefully accepted, and peeled off his own right where he stood. He saw Tynan look away from his torso, with a blush across his face. "Um, I'll just go change in the next room, okay? Give you some privacy." Kyoya thought it was odd; some of the costumes they wore to the Host Club events were quite scandalous by Japanese standards, and he was present for some of those. Once he put his shirt on and adjusted his glasses, a flash of color caught his eye. Turning to look, he saw the sliding door slightly ajar; Tynan was drying his hair, and Kyoya saw Tynan's back covered with a highly detailed tattoo of the Hanagawa wave. He moved slowly closer to the door, and now he saw faint flashes of rainbow prisms as well, which would have been present from the mist, in real life. Body tattooing was still heavily taboo, still in the realm of Yakuza, though many millennials and harajuku types would get small tattoos of innocuous things and nobody cared. This was personal, and hugely expensive. He knew a tattoo that size required many, many sittings and only after finding the right artist. Was he embarrassed? Was he worried about the Japanese taboo of tattoo culture and didn't want to offend? In a moment of great daring, Kyoya put his hand to the fusada and slid the door open completely, startling Tynan into dropping his towel. So funny, Kyoya thought, this brash American yelled at him just a minute ago, and now he won't look up. In fact, his whole body took on a blushing red. Ah, so that's it. He's shy. Upon closer look at the tattoo, he drew in his breath—there was scar tissue, barely visible, underneath the different shades of blue. "My mother, if you're asking," he whispered. "I came out to her, and my father, on my 15th birthday. I didn't think that Dad would be okay with it, but he was. My mother... not so much. I was ruining the family name, they'd be excommunicated from the Catholic Church, everything you can think of and more. When I couldn't take it anymore, I turned to go to my room and before Dad could stop her, she threw a pot of fresh Earl Grey at my back. My shirt absorbed most of it, but the tea scalded me with 3rd degree burns. For my 16th birthday, I gave myself this present, with Dad's permission of course. We don't speak anymore, she and I. She erased my sinful existence from her mind. It's okay, I'm not ashamed of my life, and I have Dad and Aine. I don't show this to anyone. You're the first person, outside of my family, to see it. You can touch the tattoo if you like, I don't have much feeling after the burns healed. It helped me get through the tattoo sessions, actually." Tynan stood still as a statue, turned away from Kyoya. Hesitantly, he ran a single finger along the outline of the tattoo. Yes, the scarring was still there, but the artistry made him wish he could feel the water. The prisms made sense now, in light of what Tynan confessed. It also explained the blushes, and the shyness, and how his touch raised bumps over Tynan's bare torso. Kyoya felt his own gooseflesh rising at this intimacy, but he didn't rebel against it. He felt a kinship with the pain Tynan suffered, though neither of his parents would ever physically harm their children. But emotional pain, yes, he knew that well. That's why he retreated to numbers, information, and the Internet. He stayed there until Tamaki and the others pulled him back to life. And now he had a clue about what he'd been feeling since Tynan came with his sister to Music Room 3.

"I'm sorry," Kyoya repeated, "I didn't mean to come here and disturb you, or make you dig into a painful subject. I want my portrait, but I... I've been confused so much lately. The only strong attachments I have are to my friends in Host Club. Tamaki is my first best friend, and now Haruhi is very precious to me. I experienced another attraction when you came to the Host Club with your sister, though I don't know how I feel about that at all. I've never had a crush or dated anyone. Strong passions are not permitted in my family, then to have them and recognize their romantic nature... well. Even I have to admit I'm at a loss about what to do." Tynan turned around, studying Kyoya's face. "I've known who I was for a long time, long before I told my parents," he replied. "Despite my relationship with my mother, I don't do anything, at least not publicly, out of regard for her, my Dad, and Aine. I couldn't, anyway. My work, my art, and my life make it very hard to find someone, much less try a relationship. That's what I meant, when I told you I know how to keep secrets. I don't keep them for my sake, but for everyone else." At his words, something loosened inside of Kyoya. This is what Haruhi saw, long before he did. Tynan's strong sense of family and honor matched his own, perhaps even surpassed his because it came from love and compassion instead of survival. Just like that moment when Tamaki forced him to face his own feelings, he knew the time had come to deal with these new emotions now. In a kneejerk reaction, he grabbed Tynan and hugged him tightly to his body. Surprised, Tynan slowly put his arms around Kyoya, feeling his body shiver with suppressed feelings. Tightening his own hold broke down the wall, and Kyoya shook with his sobs, and Tynan stood firm, holding him as he cried for minutes or for hours, until the storm had passed.

Tynan and Kyoya sat on the floor upon the battered futon. After sharing another cup of tea, they talked about the portrait, about their families, and about the good and bad things in their lives. Tynan was amazed by Kyoya's computer capabilities, and made him look up their combined net worth to see if he could do it. To his chagrin, Kyoya opened a file already saved on his laptop and pointed to the row on his Excel spreadsheet. "Yes, you're definitely Zero Cool," Tynan teased, and Kyoya blushed with pleasure. Those walls were down, Tynan observed, but they'll be back in place at school. And that's okay. He needs them there. Finally, Kyoya checked the time and reluctantly called his driver to come get him. Tynan didn't ask for his shirt back, though he did say he'd make sure to get the wet clothes taken care of. A little while later, the Ohtori limousine pulled up to the gate, and with a wave, Tynan watched him go without a look back, and he retreated into the minka to get some sleep. Little daimyo with the deep brown eyes and the brilliant mind, _nobody else saw that side of you, and I quite like that._

During the next Host Club affair, Aine and Tynan appeared as usual. This time, instead of heading directly to his usual perch, Tynan came up to Kyoya holding a wrapped box. "Kyoya-san, as you requested." Then to the group, "Thank you all for meeting with me. Please don't be too sad when I tell you that I won't show the pictures until they're all completed. I'll make appointments with each of you in turn. You'll take longer to get into your garments than it will for me to sketch you!" With a smile, he turned, heading for his usual spot. Every Host turned to Kyoya, then looked at the box, then looked back at Kyoya. Who, as usual, said nothing and gave no indication of what the package contained. To keep the Twins from snooping, he held the box until the Host Club retired for the day. In the meantime, he cast occasional glances in Tynan's direction. Indeed, Haruhi brought him sustenance a few times, and a smile crossed his lips more than once as he bent over his sketchpad. Those smiles cascaded like sunshine from a waterfall inside Kyoya, but now he cherished these new feelings instead of fighting them. In fact, they were more easily borne now that he could share them with Tynan. When he finally returned home last night, he realized the huge importance of what Tynan didn't tell him. He admitted quite frankly that he was gay, but he made no judgments or decisions about Kyoya's feelings for him, nor did he use the confusion to press for anything other than an a compassionate embrace. That put a new complexion on things; there was no doubt anymore of his ability to keep someone's trust. And it left Kyoya time to fully explore these emotions and what he wanted from Tynan. For now, it felt amazing to look at him and be content, to appreciate the sun in his hair, and to remember the feel of a tsunami under his fingertips.

Tynan's fingers stayed coated in several colors of paint. He couldn't remember sleeping much, but Aine made sure to come out and forcefully yank brushes from his hands, shove food into his mouth, draw a hot bath, and put him to bed. His schoolwork didn't suffer, but he had to absent himself from the Host Club and devote his spare time to these amazing figures coming to life. (He found out later than Mori-san volunteered as her chaperone in his absence!) In a rare turn of events, he came to the Host Club once, specifically to ask Kyoya for help in keeping Tamaki contained; his phone almost died from the sheer mass amount of phone calls and text messages. But he enjoyed this unusual work. He knew he was getting this right; he could feel it in each brush stroke. And when he finally brought out the new canvas for Kyoya... his heart sang. He wondered if he could paint with his eyes closed, working just from the memories he kept fresh in his mind's eye. Even he chuckled at the folly. _Rubbish and rot, lad, on you go!_ In the days that followed, he lovingly drew his brush across the blank material, building layer by layer. The colors seemed more vivid this time, even compared to the wild abandon of the Twins' design, and Aine could tell her brother was completely enchanted by this particular portrait. After a week of painting almost day and night, with one last stroke of his brush Tynan stepped back, his work complete. His ritual demanded that he walk away for 24 hours to bring fresh eyes and a new perspective back to the work, and it was harder than he thought this time. As he slid the door to his studio closed, his phone buzzed with an incoming text from Aine, asking him if he was finally finished. With a grin, he replied "in the affirmative," and wouldn't she know to the second? Now that it was done, the frenetic energy that came to him while he worked slowly left his body. He was TIRED, but he could hear his sister scolding him about leaving streaks of carmine on the good furniture, so he put his mind on autopilot, kept his back to Kyoya's portrait, and let habit carry him along. He cleaned his brushes and palettes meticulously; he was rich, but it took forever to break in a new paintbrush and he didn't want old paint mingling with new. He put caps back on tubes, lids back on jars, and put both back in their boxes. When he was finished, he tried rubbing some of the dried paint from his long fingers, and unhinged the straps of his overalls to prepare for a long, hot soak. Like a toddler, pieces of clothing littered the floor like breadcrumbs as he finally stepped into the deep bathtub steaming with water and saturated with Epsom salts. Before he completely passed out, he set a timer for 45 minutes; enough time to let the water counteract the oil for easy removal, actually bathe, and let the Epsom salts do their work on his body. When the ping sounded, he grabbed the loufa and soap and began scraping off two months' worth of accumulated layers of paint. He washed his hair, using the tea tree oil extract his sister foisted on him, and with one last rinse he got out of the tub. Using a special dowel with a gel pad attached, he rubbed Vitamin E lotion into his back and tattoo. Finished, he grabbed his favorite shirt – a 1980s style chambray Polo button-down in mint green – and slipped on a pair of baggy cargo shorts. Padding barefoot to the main room en route to the kitchen, he didn't see the body in front of him and collided, falling to the floor. When he finally looked up, Kyoya was standing there, in his school uniform, reaching a hand down to help him from the floor. "Oh, uh, hi?" he stuttered, still a little fuzzy from dozing in the bath and dragging from fatigue. Kyoya smiled, and pulled him to his feet. "Your sister insisted that, as the contracts manager for this project, that I come check on the Host Club's client now that the work is finished. I apologize, but I did knock—or what passes for knocking on these buildings." His eyes roamed quickly, noticing the signs of weariness and the occasional tiny splash of paint Tynan missed in his bath. "I brought food from our party, you haven't eaten yet have you?" Tynan grabbed his face in a sudden surge of energy, knocking his glasses askew: "You're up for sainthood. Unfortunately, your ancestors like to torture and kill Catholic missionaries, so we'll skip the formalities and go straight to thank you." For the next hour, Kyoya watched Tynan eat two servings of shrimp curry, at least two dozen ahi and nigiri sushi ("Octopus sticks to your tongue, no thanks") and finally slow down as he worked on a tray of assorted fruit slices for dessert. He leaned back against a wall, working on his iPad until Tynan was done, inwardly pleased that Aine trusted him to look after her brother. "He likes you a lot," she confided, "and he doesn't like a lot of people. He has his friends back home, but he would never take a commission like this from them. It's been... hard for him the past few years, and he's really here to take a rest. So thank you for helping." He saw first-hand what Tynan meant when he said his work left him little time for others; while he wasn't skin and bones, it would take a week of steady food to give him back the weight he lost. But in return, his lean body was muscle to hold a brush, handle a mallet and chisel, or work a lathe. "You don't have to stay if you don't want to, I'm not good company after I work." Tynan's voice carried through his reverie; he saved his work, closed the app, and put down his iPad. "I know it isn't your policy and you already warned us, but since I'm here, could I entreat you to let me take a peek at the others?" Tynan almost snapped a retort, taking a deep breath before responding. He was more tired than he wanted to admit. In the grand scheme of things, one must remember you never tell a paying customer "no," and he didn't ask to see his. He gestured for Kyoya to follow him to the closed door; he went in, turning the easel toward the wall, then allowed entry. At first, the overpowering scent of oil paint assaulted Kyoya's senses, but with the door open the residual fumes escaped. "You have to see them in natural light," Tynan advised. "Take one at a time and go outside." He did, with each Host's personal portrait, and reveled in the manner that Tynan not only saw them, but also saw what they would likely become. Even Hunny was still like waters in a deep cave, solemn and holy as the Shinto priest with his longbow, undoubtedly the greatest martial artist his clan had seen in four generations. When he handed the last back to Tynan, he couldn't help but wish to see his own. "Your work is extraordinary. I don't know how anyone can afford your vision." Tynan shrugged; "If I didn't sell it, then who would look upon it and forget their sorrows? Or see the good within the bad? Or pay the rent for this lovely little matchstick house?" On the last, Tynan laughed, drawing a smile from Kyoya as well. And he decided to take a chance. "Tynan... may I please see my own portrait?" Tynan froze, his body throwing off fatigue in an instant. "No," he replied. "Not that one, anyway." And with that remark, Tynan decided to take his own chance.

"Do you trust me?" Kyoya was confused; after that stormy night, he thought that was already settled. "Of course I do.." "NO. Do you trust me?" In that moment, Kyoya saw That Face. The one from the picture he had burned into his memory and saved on every mobile device he owned. He was looking at the fallen Irish god. He knew what Tynan was asking. And with a sensation like he was flying and falling at the same time, he simply replied "Yes." Taking Kyoya's hand, Tynan drew him to the futon and made him sit down. He went back into his studio, and brought out a sketchpad Kyoya recognized; he remembered the picture of Haruhi and Aine in its pages. Tynan flipped through one sheet at a time, until he came to a stop. He looked at it, and Kyoya saw naked longing in his eyes. Without a sound, he handed it down to Kyoya, walked across the room, and sat down with his back to the wall. His heart leapt to his throat when he saw what Tynan had imagined. He was wearing an uchikake the color of pale blue cornflowers over a white kimono and black hakama. His black hair was deliberate disarray, and his glasses sat slightly lower on the bridge of his nose. He was smiling at something off in the distance, though more like a shared surprise than an outright declaration. His eyes were emphasized, and held a multitude of secrets. It seemed larger than life, but he could look in a mirror tomorrow and see the same reflection. Glancing at the bottom of the page, he realized that Tynan drew this fantastic image only three days after he first came with his sister to Music Room 3. And now... he looked up at Tynan, who watched him warily from the other side of the room. He's braced for the fall, Kyoya realized, the one that always comes. He set the sketch down and got up, walking over to Tynan and offering his hand. When Tynan stood, he kept hold and entwined his fingers, raising his other hand to the side of Tynan's face. With a silent exhale, Kyoya leaned in and kissed him. The sound of Tynan's surprise vibrated against their lips, and with a tug Kyoya pulled him closer, with the late afternoon sun making haloes of their hair.

The portraits were a huge success. Tamaki wept, the Twins fought over possession, and Haruhi hugged Tynan tight and whispered "Yes, please let's" in his ear. To celebrate, the Ouran Host Club opened its doors to a ballroom of young men and women in tradition Japanese clothing, set off by samisen music and Swarovski crystals in every corner shooting rainbow prisms into the air. Tynan stayed close to his sister, a charming blush across his face now and again as the patrons begged for his attention. Naturally, Tamaki's picture was bought the most, but the Twins' portrait was voted the fan favorite. Thankfully, there were enough adoring Princesses for both, so a war was averted. In all of this, Tynan couldn't stop looking for Kyoya in the crush, resplendent in his costume as Tynan knew he would be; after all, he was the spitting image of his own portrait, right down to the laptop he carried in his hand the whole evening. Tynan leaned down and whispered in Aine's ear, and set off toward the open doors to the gardens. It was a little too much, but it wouldn't be an Ouran Host Club party without a magnitude of flair. In the light of the moon, he walked around the reflection pool, fully at peace for the first time in his life. Suddenly, a hand took hold of his and began pulling him toward the tall hedgerows. In the darkness, he couldn't tell who it was or where they were going. The figure stopped, spun around, and before Tynan could smile, Kyoya kissed him. "I saw you leave, and I have ways to extract myself without anyone noticing. Not even the Twins. And I needed to be with you for a little while. Aine told me you're leaving next week?" Ashamed, Tynan hung his head and nodded. "I didn't... I wanted to tell you myself, but I couldn't. I don't want to leave, but I have to. Dad didn't want to say anything before we left for Japan, but Mother was diagnosed with late stage cancer. She's terminal; Dad took her to every specialist. She's dying soon, and she wants to see me and spend time with me. Honestly, I don't know how I feel about it, but I won't be the one to leave regrets on the table. I don't know when or if I'll be back. And you have to believe me that I'm not running away from you. But I need you to know that if you find someone while I'm gone, or you decide this isn't right for you, then I'm okay with that." Kyoya drew in a breath, but he could see it cost Tynan to admit his fears and give him reassurance. "Don't say anything, just... just be with me right now, and worry about tomorrow when it comes, okay?" Kyoya brushed hair away from Tynan's eyes. "In other words, you want to me to be Irish? Only if you

turn Japanese." Under the watchful eye of the moon, they walked with each other, exchanging kisses and slowly saying goodbye.

(1 year later)

"Knew it! Kyoya got into university on his first try!" Tamaki gave his best friend a hug before dancing off to show Haruhi his own admission letter. Kyoya watched them together, finally a couple after so much drama and fanfare. Tynan called it, he thought to himself, thinking about the improv drawing of them in wedding clothes that he'd done and given to Kyoya as a memento. "To prove that Irish matchmakers and the hands of fate are second to none!" Aine passed along that their mother had died a few months after Tynan returned home to Chicago, and soon afterward Tynan created a sculpture in her honor that occupied a pride of place next to Padraig's portrait at O'Malley headquarters. The Hosts kept up with art magazines, posting articles of Tynan O'Malley and his exhibitions in places like Florence, Rio de Janeiro, and Sydney. Kyoya dug deep, hoping for new pictures. There were candid photos of Tynan mingling with a crowd at a New York gala or choosing a new block of black granite. When Aine finally returned home after the school year ended, within weeks the Host Club gushed over the official engagement announcement in the New York Times of Miss Aine Grace O'Malley, heir to O'Malley International and Mister William Blake Harbison of Harbison-Timofer GmbH. But they all saw that something changed in Kyoya when Tynan left. He wouldn't speak of it, and they knew better than to ask... well, everybody but Tamaki.

"You should go." Kyoya refused to look up from his laptop. Preparations for university would take place in Kyoya's room, or so Tamaki proclaimed. To date, nothing had been done, and now Tamaki uttered completely random thoughts. So, another normal day.

"Go where, exactly?"

"You know where. Haruhi knows where. All of us know where except you, apparently."

Kyoya sighed. "It's not up to any of you to decide where I go."

"Oh, I agree. But I can't help but think if you go there, you'd stop being a stick in the mud here. By the way, we all know THAT, too."

Kyoya stopped typing, and slowly turned his head toward Tamaki. "What, exactly, are you claiming you know?"

Tamaki sat up from lying on the couch behind Kyoya. "You're my best friend, Kyoya. From the moment Haruhi opened the door to Music Room 3, you did everything you could to show our hearts to each other. In return, Aine helped us help you. But now you need someone else's help, don't you?"

(one month later)

Laughing, Tynan shooed Aine out of his studio for the third time. "Imp! No, you can't see your wedding gift! It won't be done for ten years if you don't stop bothering me!" Little did she know he was making her one of his rare woodcarvings, but if she kept snooping around she'd discover the wood burl he was slowly shaping from a gnarly stump. A chime from the corner of the room told him it was time to quit. An early gift for his sister was a promise to stop working at the same time every day to eat dinner with her, William, and their father. It was her way of consoling him, helping him find some peace after their mother died, and after leaving Japan. With help from a tutor, he finished all of his high school requirements and graduated, leaving him free to do whatever he wanted with his work. But now... work wasn't the only drive in his life. He preferred working from home, leaving his studio in the hands of a new manager with blue hair and an encyclopedic knowledge of fine art and pop culture. Tonight the family was attending an opera, and he declined, rolling his eyes at his sister and declaring that he'd move to Greenland if she didn't leave him in peace for at least one night a year! After shooing them out the door, he headed upstairs and put on loose pajama pants and a faded white linen tunic. Moving further down the corridor, he used a key to unlock another door. The room had black plush carpet and LED lighting to display his most private pieces of art that never went into the public eye. Every night, he made the journey to stand before a cornflower blue silk uchikake displayed on the far wall, with a hand-embroidered Kanagawa wave in multitudes of blue crashing to shore across its back. And he let himself remember a Japanese daimyo that held his hand and gave him the treasure of a first kiss. Tonight, he let a tear fall, and another. In his sorrow, he didn't hear the light footfalls on the carpet behind him. He inhaled sharply at the hand on his elbow, then he turned and looked into Kyoya's deep brown eyes.


End file.
